I Will Always Remember

A drizzly morning thirty years ago.

I rush along a path of dripping oaks

from coffeehouse to early morning class.

Across the quad (it seems so far away)

a man much older than I  rakes wet leaves.

My coffee steams as I stop now to sip

and in the distance see a girl approach

the gardener, holding out a cup of tea.

He shakes his head, polite but firm, no thanks.

The mist and space between us cloak the two,

a snow globe or a silent movie scene.

Again the girl entreats and lifts the cup.

It’s almost eight, I may be late for class,

but I remain. How will this story go?

At last the man accepts the cup, he nods,

she smiles, nothing left for them to say.

Who gave a gift to whom that winter day?